


Biography of a son

by RapidashPatronus



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: (sort of - slightly - I guess), Canon Compliant, Gen, Hey I didn't think we had enough grief so I added some more, I have Many Feelings about this relationship, Rebelcaptain - Freeform, enjoy, enjoy this happy little one-shot of MISERY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 17:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RapidashPatronus/pseuds/RapidashPatronus
Summary: Andor has been in this fight since he was six years old. Draven knows. He brought him in.





	

 

He crouches down to face the child. Tear-tracks have cut greasy paths through the grime on the little boy’s face, but the sad eyes now are dry, his expression curiously grave. The man recognises it. It is the precocious solemnity of one who experiences their first loss and then, in quick succession, their first responsibility.

“Estás seguro?” the man asks, the damp ground seeping through the knees of his uniform trousers.

The boy nods with the same deliberate sobriety, quietly resolute, too young to doubt.

“Pues,” the man says, hating himself, reaching out anyway to shake the child’s tiny hand. “Bienvenido a la Rebelión, Cassian Andor. Mi nombre es Capitán Draven.”

 

He’s smart; he learns quickly. Draven sits next to him and shows him how to clean and service a blaster safely. Andor watches in silent concentration, then falls industriously to copying the captain’s work. In no time, he’s handing the weapon back in almost perfect condition, gazing up at him with hopeful uncertainty.

“Well done; bien hecho,” he tells him with a light pat on his arm.

The thin little face lights up, and Draven allows himself an indulgent smile in return.

 

Draven looks around frantically and finally sees him. He is halfway down the hill, rooted to the spot. For a moment, he’d almost thought he’d lost him. He strides back down the hill and sees the reason for the boy’s sudden paralysis. Of course. It had had to come sometime.

“It’s hardest the first time,” he says as gently as he can from behind him. He wants to wash out the taste of the callousness. Instead, he just bends down a little to rest his hand on Andor’s narrow, bony shoulder. The boy doesn’t move; he stays staring at the crumpled body a few steps away, his blaster still pointing at the space just above.

“Come on, Andor,” says Draven. There’s no response. He picks him up – he’s still so very light – and carries him back up the hill toward the ship. He tries to ignore the trembling.

 

“That’ll get us in anywhere round here,” he says proudly, arms folded.

Draven turns the passdoc over in his hands. “How did you get this, Andor?” he asks.

The kid quirks an eyebrow. “How do you think, sir?” he answers. “Come on. I found the place, too.”

Draven follows him down the alley, watches him slip his blaster easily back into its holster. He examines his own feelings, recognises pride, and then, immediately, shame.

 

Charming and cheerful, he wears his cocksure arrogance well. Promotion has only added to his confidence, confidence to his appeal. Draven’s not blind to how many of the other teenage recruits coyly follow Andor with their eyes as he passes.

 _And he’s too good at his job, for one thing,_ thinks Draven. _It’s going to get him in trouble someday. He’s too young to go out alone._ But he isn’t really, not now; he’s grown past lankiness, his chin shaded with the rakish beginnings of a beard.

Draven realises, with a pang, that he is running out of reasons to watch over him.

 

“He can’t get out of it now.” Cassian paces back and forth like a trapped animal. “But if we go… I don’t know what to do… we can’t go…” He pushes his hands through his hair.

Oillo’s been stupid; he’s compromised the mission. There was good reason, but not good enough. There’s only one solution, Draven knows, but it’s so much to ask.

 “You have to neutralise him, Lieutenant.”

The young man wheels around, eyes wild. “You can’t mean that,” he says frantically. “Oillo’s my partner, I can’t – you can’t – there’s got to be –”

Draven stays carefully impassive. “You know there isn’t.”

The desperation in Cassian’s eyes turns to darkness. Draven pushes down his pity and stands with military stillness, absorbing the shocks and storms of his protégé’s rage for what seems like forever, until at last, the storm blows itself out, subsiding to resignation, misery, silent acquiescence. A defeated nod.

Stone is too hard to absorb blows like this. Draven is not stone. He wishes he were.

 

Andor returns alone, late. Days late. Years older. His debrief is perfunctory and efficient, the shadows around his eyes Oillo’s only eulogy. He refuses partners for future missions. The glances of admiration that followed him before grow less frequent, more guarded.

 

It’s a relief of a sort to see him so absorbed. Surrounded by tools and droid parts, his look of studious concentration brings to mind the child Draven taught to service a blaster, 16 years ago. How the resourceful young officer got hold of an Imperial droid to begin with is something of a mystery, but it will be useful. Company again, too.

He starts to walk over to offer assistance with the project, but checks himself. How often he forgets the necessity of distance. Andor’s closed, serious obedience troubles him at times; how he’s never again questioned an order. _He’s dependable,_ Draven tells himself. Another part of him responds with quiet precision: _He’s exhausted._

 

People like Galen Erso aren’t worth the risk, no matter how shrouded in myth. But the Alliance is a farce, more preoccupied with political wrangling than getting its hands dirty. Perhaps they have forgotten what people like Captain Andor are for.

Andor, who doesn’t blink when pulled aside, who shows no confusion at these contradictory orders, muttered to him in covert haste. Always just that same deliberate, sober nod. Quietly resolute, too old to question.

 

Draven has long known that there might come a day when Andor simply does not return. He had never thought it would be at his own hand. The operation on Eadu is a near catastrophe. He thinks he will wake up feeling that panic for the rest of his life.

 

There was a peculiar light in Andor this morning. The serious expression, the drawn features, the lithe, furtive movement – all were familiar, unchanged. But Draven detected a strange air about him that he had thought lost years ago. Purpose, perhaps.

It worries him. He has seen changes in Andor before, but he has always known the reason. They have always been expected. They have rarely been for the better.

 _He’s not dependable any more_ , he thinks. Another part of him responds with quiet precision: _He’s not exhausted_.

But now the Alliance is crumbling, and what do they have left to fight for?

There’s something about the fire in the girl that worries him, too.

 

Cassian was born to shadows and intrigue, and then something had told him he could blaze. Stupid boy. Stupid girl. Stupid himself, for not recognising the light in him in time. For not feeling grateful or proud. For hating the thought of heroes. His self-reproach is spiteful. Grief insults him, assaults him.

Draven grips the rail around the viewport and makes sure nobody can see his face.

Curious, indeed, how victory can feel so much like loss.


End file.
